by Anne Marsh
Dev isn’t patient. He lasts three seconds before growling at me. “Tell me what you want.”
The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re such an ass.”
He smirks as he closes the door. “That’s very unprofessional.”
“Come in and shut the door.” I slam the lid down on my laptop. “Sit.”
“I’m not a dog—”
I jump to my feet, march over to him and point at the bright blue yoga ball on the other side of my desk. “Sit there.”
He doesn’t sit. Nope. He stands there, arms over his chest, looking down at me like a big, angry, uptight rock. That I want to climb said rock is a personal problem.
“Someone’s cranky and uptight today. Perhaps you’d like to tell me about your problem?”
I’m sure my disbelief is written all over my face. “Are you always this rude?”
“You know what you need?” The bastard actually smirks, which makes it clear that any suggestion he’s about to make will be X-rated.
“Nothing from you,” I snap.
And since we’ve already crossed the line of office-appropriate behavior—have, in fact, plunged into the Grand Canyon of career-ending mistakes—I have no reason to hold back. I kick the yoga ball behind him and push down on his shoulder. For once, he’s listening to me. For once, he’s doing exactly as he’s told.
A harsh noise escapes him, cut off quickly.
“Really?” He recovers quickly. “You sure seemed to want something on Saturday. Do you tutor all your interns so thoroughly on the company’s needs?”
The gasp that escapes me is genuine. He is such an ass and he does not get to have the last word. I won’t apologize and I won’t swallow my annoyance with him.
“No, Mr. King. My intern couldn’t get the job done, so I took care of it.”
Dev
There’s a bitter, twisting feeling in my gut. Bad tacos? Too much Sunday night tequila? It takes me a moment to realize the twisting sensation is an honest-to-God—and most unwelcome—emotion. I’m...jealous. Of whoever or whatever got her off. My nemesis just smiles and scoots her sweet little ass onto the desk.
The desk where I almost but not quite brought her to screaming orgasm. I actually consider finishing the job right now because being alone with her here is driving me crazy. I need to know what her O face looks like, if she gets louder or quieter when she comes, if she’s the type of woman who pulls her man closer, digging in with her heels and her nails, or if she pushes him away because it’s too much in those final seconds when her body splinters, coming apart. I’ve been hard since she texted me.
She stands there, watching me with a cat-in-the-cream smile. Fortunately, she keeps her eyes on my face and not on what’s happening lower down, in my jeans. Parts of me like her attitude just fine, even if other parts of me are fantasizing about pulling her over my knee and spanking her ass cherry red. Marking her until every time she sits or squirms, she thinks of me.
I lean forward, arms on my knees. Her tits are literally right in my face, her body mere inches from mine. It’s been mere hours since I touched her and I remember every detail. Push. “Is this a performance review?”
She raises a brow and pushes right back. “I’d be happy to review your performance. You’re too quick, too forceful and you think small.”
“Small.”
She smirks at me. “Very small. But that’s not why I called you in here.”
She leans over the desk, reaching for a bag I hadn’t spotted before (probably because I can’t stop staring at Lola and remembering her naked). It’s a gift bag, with colored handles and curly ribbon. Pastel llamas cover the sides. Or maybe they’re alpacas. Fuck if I know.
“This is yours.” Her hostile gaze bores holes into me. Likely she’s aiming for my ego but the attitude just makes my dick sit up and take notice. She dumps the bag in my lap and then strolls toward the door.
Stops.
“I need the newsletter plug-in completed by the end of the day.” She’s moving again, the words tossed over her shoulder as if I’m really that unimportant. “Get on that, okay?”
I glare at the bag. There’s no way it contains anything good. I should get up, walk out, call time on our game. But I don’t. Instead, I open the bag. Inside, wrapped in green-and-white polka-dot tissue, is my tie from Saturday. Sharpied drawings of a penis cover the pink stripes in neat, methodical lines. A really small, sad salad of a penis.
Game on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lola
WHEN LUNCHTIME ROLLS AROUND, I hide in my office. The morning’s been a bust and the lines of code dance on my laptop screen, taunting me. I’ve written exactly nothing since this morning, so I welcome the quick rap on the door.
“Come in.” My response is automatic, leaving my mouth before I remember to check who my visitor is.
“Ask nicely.”
I look up, startled. Not the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. Ah, my old nemesis the summer intern. We meet again!
“Let me know if you need me to define nicely,” Dev growls.
As if I can’t guess that ask nicely really means beg me. “Have you finished your assignment?”
“Already done. Now tell me you’re impressed.”
“Only if it gets the job done,” I say sweetly right as he comes up behind me, his legs bracing my back, his arms slamming down on either side of me. I’m trapped, caged between him and my desk, and my body goes up in flames.
“I’m the best at my job.” His mouth brushes my ear and I panic. I work in a fishbowl, for crying out loud. People can see. But when I gaze frantically out my stupid glass walls, there’s no one watching us. It’s lunchtime and everyone’s either gone out already or is busy in the kitchen.
Dev reaches inside his jacket—he must be headed out for lunch, too—and pulls out a small, tissue-wrapped rectangle decorated with a pink satin bow. He drops it in front of me, on top of my keyboard. My head brushes his chest, he’s so close.
“Since we’re exchanging gifts,” he says, “I thought you could use these. Since you seem to have lost yours.”
I open my mouth—although I have no idea what to say—but he’s already leaving, moving for the front door at a ground-eating stride. That’s probably good. I don’t think anything that I said now would be work appropriate. Or quiet. Without realizing it, I tug at the pink bow. It’s stupid to play his game, but now I’m curious. I undo the package gingerly, as if it were a bomb that required careful handling.
You seem to have lost yours.
He’s given me a pair of pale pink La Perla panties. Delicate bows hold the sides together. They’re feminine, absolutely delicious and probably cost as much as my electric bill—and he’s defaced them with a pink marker. It’s like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa. Or—I turn the panties around, trying to decipher the lines—a winding road sign? Knowing Dev, it’s probably a penis and a vagina, but it’s a good thing I didn’t hire him for his drawing skills. His artwork might be a battering ram storming a castle. Or just a whole lot of Freudian squiggles. The only thing I know for certain is that the man just gave me panties.
At the office.
I storm after him and find him in the alley between Calla and the neighboring building. He’s straddling a big black beast of a motorcycle. Funny. I’d have thought he rode hellhounds or something. That he looks sexy as hell just makes me angrier.
I toss the panties in his face. He catches them easily, holding the tiny scrap up for the whole world to see. Lovely. Pretty sure my face flames. Fine. So he gets to me. So he knows it. I want to scream at him, to slap the smirk off his beautiful face, to reach down and grab his balls hard. He makes me crazy.
Instead, I use my words. “You don’t get to storm off in a snit.”
He turns the bike on with a casual flick of his hand. It’s one o
f those superexpensive, high-tech numbers that has no key—he just does some kind of voodoo with his fingers and the engine turns over. Like I did.
I came to the conclusion weeks ago that he comes from money. The clothes, now the bike—someone in his family hit the ball out of the financial park.
“According to California labor laws, I’m entitled to a lunch break, Ms. Jones. Surely you don’t want me to faint at your feet. You wouldn’t get your money’s worth then.”
“I’m entitled to your respect.” I glare back at him. I never yell but he just has to prove that I have zero control around him. “Do you have any idea how long it took to untie my wrists?”
I don’t know who moves first. I’d like to blame him, but my fingers are definitely wrapped around his stupid, sexy tie, yanking him toward me even as his hands find my hips and pull me closer to his big, heated body. It isn’t as if I came out here planning to manhandle him. Or kiss him. But both are definitely happening.
His mouth closes over mine and I’m too hot, too impatient. He’s made me wait for this, and now, touching him, I’m giddy and on fire. I need this man in so many ways, even if he’s dangerous. I lose focus around him, falling under the spell he weaves so effortlessly. We still fight when we’re kissing, but it’s different. His tongue tangles with mine, his mouth seeking an advantage.
He eases back, his mouth leaving mine. “Have sex with me.”
His lips are still close enough that I can feel his smirk against my own mouth. His tongue teases my lower lip, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.
“We shouldn’t.”
“But we will. Say yes.” He trails his mouth over my throat, and I moan, relaxing into his hold.
“Dev—”
“Say yes,” he repeats. His big hands skim up my sides beneath my tank top, cupping my bare breasts. Of all the days to skip the evil bra, I had to pick this one. Confident fingers tease my nipples. “Let me make you come.”
“We’re outside. Anyone could walk by.” My objections don’t come out as forcefully as they should, or maybe that’s because my hands are pulling at his belt. I feel wicked, more daring, completely ready to strip down and bare myself to Dev.
“No one will see.” He does something to my nipple that makes me moan like a porn star. “I promise.”
“Alright.” Fighting is so overrated—fucking is infinitely better.
He kills the bike and lifts me until I’m straddling his lap facing him. My legs fall open shamelessly as I brace my hands on his shoulders and lean in so I can kiss him. I’m so wet that I ache. As if he already knows my dirty secret, he slides his hand into my pants, hand resting just above my mound.
“Watch,” he orders.
I hold his gaze. I feel different when he touches me, a freer, wilder Lola 2.0 who has a chance to do in real life what she’s only fantasized about before. Part of me just wants him to do it already. Honestly, the whole day’s been foreplay. I’m ready for him to shove inside me and yet at the same time I feel far too naked, more naked than if I truly had no clothes on. His gaze slides over my face, down my body, a fierce mix of heat and need.
“Touch me now?” My fingers dig into his rock-hard thighs.
“Yes.” He slides his hand lower, his fingers stroking gently over my slick folds.
The erotic ache builds as he parts me and then pushes a finger inside me. I’ve never cared much for this kind of foreplay. It’s too intimate, too intrusive. In some ways, it still is. I’m intensely aware of his finger moving my body. He pushes in slowly, inexorably, stopping just long enough for me to adjust to his invasion and even then there’s a slight sting as my body gives. But along with the embarrassment and the uncomfortable intimacy comes heat, a bright spark of dark pleasure that grows until I’m panting and burying my face against his throat.
Dev groans. “Fuck, I love being inside you.”
“That makes two of us.” I wrap my legs around his waist, letting him all the way in. His finger burns now. I’m not quite wet enough, but I’m getting there fast. He finger-fucks me like he does everything, intently, with a sure confidence and skill. If I don’t think, if I shut down my brain and just feel...the orgasm hovers so close.
“You have no idea what I want to do to you,” he whispers against my ear. “I’ve thought about it all weekend. Eating you out, spanking you, taking you here.”
Another finger pushes gently but firmly against my back opening. Stars explode behind my closed eyes. He likes fantasies, too.
“Tell me what to do first. Tell me what you like best. Or tell me to choose for you, Lola, and I’ll do it.”
“Yes,” I whisper back, riding his hand but needing more. “Do that.”
“Which?” His voice teases.
“Choose,” I whisper back. He knows I’m close and he gives it to me. He finds my clit, rubbing and pinching gently, and that blend of sweet and pain has me tightening, holding my breath as I push myself against him and I come. He holds me steady as I shatter, his eyes on the spot where he touches me so perfectly, his arms steady around me. He’s got me and it’s safe to let go.
For a moment, I just breathe him in, waiting for his answer, for the next hard beat of his pulse. Noise filters in from the street—cars passing, people chatting, a dog barking. It only feels like we’re alone together. We’re still a dirty secret, a broken rule, a screwed-up game we play with each other. I’m not sure what we’re doing together, but he’s more than a crush.
Dev shifts, unbuckling, unzipping. His penis springs free and it’s thick and long, a greedy, heated weight in my palm. A fire truck tears by and our alley echoes with the deafening sound. This is crazy. I don’t think I care. I fist his dick, squeezing my hand up, and he groans, shoving himself against my palm.
“Rougher,” he demands. “Make it hurt good.”
I do it, closing my palm around him and dragging my hand down. Back up. He’s so hard beneath the velvety skin. Pre-cum slicks the fat head, but it’s not enough for this. I reach between my legs where I’m wet and cover my fingers.
I think about taking him into my mouth, but I’m not getting down on my knees in an alley for him. Instead, I work him with both hands, one on top of the other, squeezing him tight. I already know what his face looks like when he comes, but I want to see it again. I want him to let go, to surrender to me like I did to him.
It’s his expression that makes me stop and think. The way he watches my hand working him, his face fierce, needy, certain. He wants to have sex with me, so that’s what we’ll do. Never mind that this is my job, my career, my only chance to get this start-up off the ground and I’ve bet everything on success. He just wants, so he’ll take because that also puts him ahead in this screwed-up game he’s playing.
I let go and swing my leg over the bike. Straightening my clothes, I wish I could put myself back together as easily.
“Bitch,” he whispers.
I meet his gorgeous eyes.
“Bastard,” I counter, tugging his tie free. “This game I could play all night.”
A hint of a smile plays around the corners of his gorgeous, filthy mouth.
I pocket his tie, lean in and press a chaste kiss against his cheek. “Have a nice lunch.”
I make it into Calla without looking back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dev
HAVE A NICE LUNCH.
I sit there on my bike in the alley, pants open, dick doing a flagpole impression, while my nemesis saunters away. She’s got her happy ending and she’s left me wrecked.
What the ever-LOVING fuck.
She’s just scored a triple-word play in this game we’re playing.
I pull myself together, stuff Mr. Not-So-Happy back in my jeans and weigh my options. Did I just finger Lola until she came? And then she pantsed me and left me high and dry? Since my unsatisfied state would make riding my bike rig
ht now torture, I swing my leg over the bike, shove my hands in my pockets and get the hell out of the alley. Clearly neither of us is normal.
Which is only brought further home by the way I sniff my fingers. She’s marked my skin, let me bring her to orgasm and then walked away as if she needs nothing more from me. She also—damn it—has my tie.
Again.
I get looks and two thumbs-up on my way to the taco truck that’s three blocks away. San Francisco is a colorful place, so I must look like I’ve been ridden hard. This is driven home when the woman in the taco truck can’t stop breaking out into spontaneous giggles as she takes my order and bags up my tacos. Whatever. I’m not starving just because Lola won our last match.
I slink back into Calla and make a beeline for the bathroom. It’s all old-world glamour with dark purple wallpaper and gold curlicues. The ladies have stocked it with the essentials—a flat iron, a round curling iron and something that looks like a brush, a hedgehog and an electrical cord had a ménage à trois and produced a kinky baby. Naturally, there’s a branded basket of feminine hygiene supplies. I throw the lock on the door and brave a look in the bathroom mirror. Wow. It’s worse than I imagined. I look like I just escaped from Christian Grey’s private pleasure party.
My hair’s a mess. My hair tie’s gone. Daily battle against the curls and waves? Lost with epic casualties. Not a hint of smooth, cool, in-control remains. A dozen harpies finger-combing couldn’t have created a bigger mess—except for my shirt. Not only have I lost my tie, I’ve lost the topmost buttons. My comic book T-shirt peeks out, shouting KA-POW! for all to see. Apparently Ms. Jones likes undoing things. I’ll have to present a bigger challenge next time.
Abort. No.
She’s right about one thing. We shouldn’t do this. It’s rash, stupid, insane, career suicide and destined to fail—pick your favorite description.
My clothes and my ego aren’t the only things that sustained damage. I didn’t even notice when she bit my lip. It’s slightly puffy from her attention. And... I have a hickey on my throat. The only soap is a violet-scented foaming number, but I strip to the waist, lather up and shove my head under the icy tap.